


Father of War

by AraniWrites



Series: The Ineffable Life [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale has serious ptsd, Depression, Descriptions of wars but it's not super explicit, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, War, also this is set after the first fic in this series, but both read as solo fics while still being related, crowley is way out of his depth, no beta reading we die like writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 12:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20389834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniWrites/pseuds/AraniWrites
Summary: There were three things Crowley could depend on every day with complete certainty. One, that Aziraphale loved him utterly and completely, just as much as he loved him in turn. Two, that he could consistently count on the angel to be present within their shared flat above the old bookshop, engrossed in his books for days and weeks at a time, only broken by Crowley’s presence. Three, that they had agreed not to lie to one another again, and both had upheld their agreement faithfully.He had never had reason to doubt these three truths. That is, until today.





	Father of War

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated by Aziraphale's role in heaven, and his flaming sword. I wanted to explore what he could have left behind after coming to Earth to guard humanity, so here's that exploration. Aziraphale has PTSD, at least Crowley's good at hugs.

There were three things Crowley could depend on every day with complete certainty. One, that Aziraphale loved him utterly and completely, just as much as he loved him in turn. Two, that he could consistently count on the angel to be present within their shared flat above the old bookshop, engrossed in his books for days and weeks at a time, only broken by Crowley’s presence. Three, that they had agreed not to lie to one another again, and both had upheld their agreement faithfully.

He had never had reason to doubt these three truths. That is, until today.

It had started as a normal morning. Crowley woke slowly, as usual. He spent a few hours dozing, soaking in the warmth of the sunlight that filtered in through the nearby window, as usual. Aziraphale wasn’t on his side of the bed, the covers neatly pulled up to the perfectly plump pillow above, made up every day, as usual.

Aziraphale rarely slept. He’d never particularly cared for the idea, but he did indulge Crowley. Whenever Crowley asked Aziraphale would follow him to bed, let him become comfortable on his chest, and read a book as Crowley slept. Every once in a while Crowley would wake in the morning to find Aziraphale asleep beneath him, his book off to the side or over his face, holding Crowley close to his heart. It was Crowley’s favorite way to wake in the morning, and he’d spend hours studying Aziraphale’s face in the morning light, peppering him with kisses when the angel started to wake again.

This day, however, he awoke alone. This wasn’t unusual; Aziraphale would often get up in the morning, leaving Crowley asleep atop some carefully placed pillows. He would make breakfast in the morning, and Crowley would wake to him humming to himself in the kitchen, smelling some new dish being cooked on the stovetop. He always seemed to know when Crowley would wake up, and the food would always be hot and fresh for him.

But Aziraphale wasn’t in the kitchen. In fact, he wasn’t in the flat at all. 

Well then, Crowley reasoned, Aziraphale had decided to open the shop. He’d usually wait for Crowley to wake up, but Crowley had slept in, and his angel did need to open his bookshop every now and then. With a stretch and a yawn, Crowley snapped his fingers to don a loose t-shirt and jeans, making his way down the steps to the bookshop.

He expected to find Aziraphale at his desk in the back, or in the front dissuading his customers from buying any of his precious books. However, the angel wasn’t there. The bookshop was quiet, the sign spun to “closed”, the lights off. Aziraphale wasn’t at his desk, wasn’t among the bookshelves. And as Crowley finally woke up fully, he realized with a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t feel Aziraphale’s presence anywhere in the bookshop.

Anywhere in London, for that matter.

“Aziraphale?!” Unwilling to believe it, Crowley searched the shop one more time. He went up to the flat, looked among the shelves, practically turned their home upside down. Still, there was no angel, and Crowley felt fear grip his heart the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the day he saw the bookshop burn to the ground all those years ago.

As Crowley searched, his eyes landed back on Aziraphale’s desk. This time he saw something that didn’t belong; Aziraphale’s angel-winged mug was sitting on the desk. Underneath the mug was a piece of paper, a note bearing Aziraphale’s unmistakable handwriting.

_My dearest Crowley,_

_Unfortunately, I have been called away to perform a set of miracles. I wanted to wake you, but seeing you sleep so peacefully made me pause. You’re so beautiful, my love, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I’ll be gone for a few days. Please don’t wait up or worry for me, these miracles will be swift and easy to perform. I’ll think of you until I return. _

__

__

_With all my love and affection,_

_Aziraphale_

Anyone else would have been placated, but Crowley was not anyone. He knew Aziraphale would have woken him. He knew that Heaven wouldn’t call on Aziraphale to perform any miracles; it had been years since the Armageddon That Didn’t and neither Heaven, nor Hell, had called on either of them. Even if they did, both had agreed they wouldn’t respond. They were on their own side, on Humanity’s side. Crowley couldn’t believe the note, even if it was in Aziraphale’s neat script. 

Crowley didn’t bother with his Bently this time, Aziraphale wasn’t in London. Instead he snapped his fingers again, donned his new favorite leather jacket and willed himself to an isolated field outside of London. Without the prying eyes Crowley spread his pitch-black wings, rolled his shoulders, and lifted himself into the air to search for his angel.

Crowley never knew quite how, but he always knew where Aziraphale was. His aura was so familiar to Crowley he could pick it up from anywhere; though distance was a problem, he only needed to concentrate until he sensed it, no matter how small the aura was. And through his aura, Crowley knew when Aziraphale was in danger; in Paris when the angel was peckish, in London when Aziraphale met with Nazi spies. He knew he could find Aziraphale this time as well. So he flew high above the clouds, away from the noise and traffic of the world, and concentrated on the light that Aziraphale never failed to emit. And when he sensed it, faint but certain, he shot off in that direction as fast as his wings could carry him.

\---

In a Syrian refugee camp, far from the comforts of London, an Angel walked among the destitute.

None paid him any mind, as he wished it to be so. Either way they were too busy tending to their families, to their wounds, to the scraps of possessions they’d managed to save, crammed together in tents and under tarps in a war-torn country they’d once called home.

Aziraphale certainly looked the part. But even so, he ensured no one paid attention to him, ensured no one remembered him come or go. He slipped into medical tents and healed the children who laid there, broken bones and burns and pulled shrapnel from their delicate skin. He cured diseases and lifted spirits, offering kind words where actions couldn’t contend. He provided clean water and food from an unending source, and always left just as quietly as he’d come, moving through the camp meticulously and carefully.

It wasn’t his first time performing such a task. He’d done this many times throughout history, venturing into the heart of countries most torn by war and famine and plague, performing these miracles for as long as he could, often times without Heaven’s oversight. He could do no different now; the need to help embedded in his soul, the terrors he witnessed numbed by the smiles he could coax out of the children he worked so hard to save. And those he couldn’t… well, a blessing couldn’t hurt. A blessing was something he was more than willing to provide.

That was where Crowley found him, shushing a tiny baby in his arms while his mother ate a small meal, cooing at the child as he played with the angel’s gold ring. Aziraphale noticed him there, staring as Aziraphale played with the child, but didn’t approach or comment; he simply waited, waited as Aziraphale cured the child’s lungs, waited as he handed the child back to his mother, waited as Aziraphale sent her away with her burned hands soothed for the first time in months. Then Aziraphale stood and Crowley pulled him aside; no one would pay them any mind.

“My dear, whatever are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked him, all concern and love, the strain of performing miracles peaking through his eyes. Crowley took in the sight; Aziraphale was covered in dirt, spots of blood on his sleeves, his blue eyes pale and haunted.

“I’m going to ask you that question first, and I won’t settle for some bullshit ‘Heaven sent me here’ answer.”

Aziraphale stared up into his loves face; Crowley tried to keep his aloof posture, but his eyes betrayed his concern and fear and hurt. Crowley’s fingers trailed through Aziraphale’s hair, moving slowly through blonde curls, fingertips speaking volumes. _Why are you here, why did you leave, what did I do?_

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s cheek, but his face had long since hardened, with no attempt to even hide his discomfort. “I need to be here. I don’t want to talk about it. It’ll only be a few days, then I’ll be home.” Aziraphale promised him, voice strained and heavy, pulled tight by conflict and fear. 

“Why?” Crowley asked him, wishing he could ask a thousand more questions along the same vein of hurt. “What could possibly--”

_“I don’t want to talk about it.”_

Crowley hadn’t heard that tone of voice from Aziraphale’s lips since the Great Flood. It shut him up, eyes widening as he stared down at a nearly unrecognizable Aziraphale, an angel nearly shattered on the ground before him.

“Go home, Crowley. I’ll be back in a few days, then we can--”

“No.”

“But--”

“_No._” Crowley repeated, using one hand to cup his lover’s cheek while the other rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I won’t ask. What do you need me to do?”

If Aziraphale hadn’t looked broken before, he certainly did now. But he pulled the cracks together with duct tape, hid the emotion flooding from his eyes and leaned carefully into Crowley’s touch. Crowley would find out why he was here, but not yet-- not when his angel looked like he’d blow away in the next gust of wind.

Aziraphale swallowed, lips drying out by the minute, taking a shuddering breath. “I need to not be noticed. Not by anyone.”

Crowley pulled the angel in and kissed his forehead, holding him close for a moment in a vast world of pain and discomfort. “Okay.”

\---

An Angel and a Demon spent four days moving between three different refugee camps, days and nights spent as the bullets flew in the distance.

Crowley followed Aziraphale everywhere, always on his heel, never losing sight of the angel. He kept the attention off of them as Aziraphale worked and watched, ever so carefully, as Aziraphale performed miracle after miracle.

He tried to help, only once. Aziraphale stopped him. Where usually the angel would be overjoyed by Crowley assisting him in performing miracles, Aziraphale held his wrist so tight it was nearly painful, locking his eyes with a fierce declaration. “Don’t.” And Crowley, so startled and confused, did nothing but nod, backing away and giving Aziraphale the space to work. He hadn’t gotten too close to Aziraphale since, hadn’t touched or distracted him, simply followed and watched. That seemed to be enough, and Aziraphale was calm.

Aziraphale worked day and night, performing miracles big and small, to the point where Crowley knew Heaven had to be paying attention by now. But he wasn’t stopped, nor bothered; no light from the sky nor visits from their bland company, so Crowley let him work, and work, until Aziraphale was nearly collapsing. The angel exhausted himself physically and mentally until he no longer had the energy to even stand, much less move or walk. Only then did Crowley intervene, hand on his shoulder as he performed a demonic miracle of his own, sending them away from the refugee camps and back into their little flat in Soho, London. With only a little more effort, both Aziraphale and Crowley were cleaned up and willed into their pajamas before landing right into their bed. Aziraphale would have been surprised had he not been so tired.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He muttered to a rather befuddled Crowley, who watched as he took deep, calming breaths.

“How did you expect to get back home?” He asked. Aziraphale shrugged, closing his eyes, his senses filling with the noise of London awash in an evening glow.

“I don’t usually get to… such a state.” He assures his perfect, loving, concerned demon. “Only kept going because you were there.”

Crowley hummed, deep and worried, petting back Aziraphale’s curls from his forehead. The angel sunk into the mattress, slowly feeling around until he found Crowley’s free hand.

“Want to tell me what the heaven you were doing in the Middle East?”

“No.” Aziraphale mutters, the coldness returned to his voice, unsuited to the softness of his features. “Later. Sleep first.”

Crowley, damn his heart, couldn’t possibly refuse him. Instead he let Aziraphale get comfortable, arms wrapped around torso. Crowley pulled the angel in and watched as Aziraphale fell into a deep sleep, petting his hair all throughout. He could wait a little longer for answers. He knew he could, just to rid Aziraphale of whatever it was that turned him cold.

As Aziraphale slept he tried to think of what could have happened; every day of the years since they started their new lives together, every conversation, every moment spent in his presence. He couldn’t justify it, couldn’t find an answer. So instead he waited, and watched as Aziraphale slept through the next morning, afternoon, evening, and entirely into the next day.

By now, Crowley had dozed off a few times, but he remained at Aziraphale’s side. He wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, or what to do or say. This was uncharted territory. This was an Aziraphale he wouldn’t recognize, had he not known the angel for over six thousand years.

He’d not seen this kind of pain since the Flood, and he wondered how the two scenarios could possibly relate.

\---

When Aziraphale woke, it wasn’t in his usual manner; a little dazed and confused, but soft nonetheless. No, this time he awoke as Crowley had never seen, in a cold sweat, eyes burning with fury and terror, every muscle in his body prepared to fight.

Crowley hadn’t noticed how it started. After hour 38 he’d dozed off again, holding Aziraphale’s hand in his own. He only awoke when Aziraphale thrashed in his sleep, nearly knocking Crowley clean out of the bed. It was startling, and Crowley was more than a little disoriented, but Aziraphale’s death-grip on his hand and pained gasps were enough to shake him from his confusion.

Nightmare. 

Well, shit.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, shaking the man’s shoulders with one hand. Aziraphale merely curled in on himself; the grip on his hand would have broken a normal human’s bones. “Aziraphale, wake up! It’s a dream angel, _wake up!_”

A moment later Aziraphale shot up in a cold sweat. He released Crowley’s hand and used that arm to slam Crowley back into the headboard, knocking the breath out of the demon. At the same time, Aziraphale somehow manifested a sword into his free hand and pointed it out to the room, ready to strike. His sword only met open air, and the angel sat frozen for several terrifying moments, trying to make sense of the world around him.

“A--” Crowley coughed hard, feeling the need to breathe even though he shouldn’t have to, “Angel. Angel, let up-p, I c-can’t breathe!”

One moment, Aziraphale’s eyes were cold, emotionless, ready for battle. He held his sword firmly, pointed at the throat of an unnamed threat, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. The next his eyes widened, his sword vanished into the air, and his head whipped around to the still-pinned body of Crowley, who struggled in vain to remove the angel’s arm from his chest. It was a shocking reminder of just how much strength Aziraphale hid behind soft edges and layers of tartan.

“Cowley!” Aziraphale pulled himself back from Crowley so quickly he bounced back on the bed, almost down at the very bottom. “I’m s-- Oh, I’m so s-sorry! I-I--!” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, wild, his chest heaving as he tried to make sense of the world. Crowley reached for him instinctively, but Aziraphale flinched away. “I-I hurt-- did I hurt you? I’m so-orry!” He stuttered until he couldn’t speak anymore, until his breath was pulled from him by the panic so clearly filling his senses. Crowley was out of his depth, so far out there was no land in sight. All he could do was reach for Aziraphale once more, grab him before he could move away and pull him into a tight embrace.

Aziraphale shook and heaved for what felt like hours, until the tears that streamed down his cheeks were but distant memories and and his once-tight grip was now slack with weariness. Crowley held him through it, petting his sweat-drenched hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, only anchors to each other. He had Aziraphale breathe with him, spent a few snaps on a glass of water and a cool towel, and waited as Aziraphale slowly calmed. Finally the angel moved, too tired to remain upright, still not recovered from his stint of miracles.

“There now, that’s better. You’re okay. We’re okay.” Crowley soothed, pulling Aziraphale back against the headboard, letting the angel lean on him. Aziraphale was practically in Crowley’s lap, but the demon couldn’t ever mind the close proximity. He’d waited six thousand years, after all. He wasn’t about to push him away.

“Did-- Did I hurt you?” Aziraphale asked, eyelids heavy, limbs weak.

“Nah, can’t hurt this demon.” Crowley kissed his temple, “Just startled me ‘s all.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Crowley shushed him quietly, lovingly, with all the patience he could muster. He could wait. He would wait.

Finally, Aziraphale’s apologies stopped, as did his shallow breaths and tears. Crowley brought forth a new damp down and helped him wipe down his face, cool moisture on hot skin calming the angel further. Crowley had him drink again, and rubbed his back as Aziraphale made himself more comfortable in Crowley’s lap.

“Better?” He asked.

“Better.”

“Good.” Crowley traced circles into Aziraphale’s shoulder, pushing his fingers just under the fabric of Aziraphale’s nightshirt to maintain contact. “Want to tell me what all that was about, then?”

Aziraphale took in a slow breath, closing his eyes, deciding how to have such a conversation. Crowley simply waited. He pictured everything he knew of that would cause Aziraphale to have a nightmare, and prepared a justification for each one. The Flood, plagues, mass murders, the witch hunts, all of them he could help Aziraphale justify in his mind. He just needed to speak the word, and Crowley would answer.

“Did you fight in Heaven’s civil war?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Crowley was prepared to explain away any regrets Aziraphale might be feeling. He didn’t see that coming. He couldn’t see that coming.

“I-- Erm-- well, no--”

Aziraphale grunted something of an affirmation, as if confirming his own suspicions. 

“I did.”

“... Oh. Oh, angel--”

“Don’t.” Aziraphale hushed him, “I don’t need justifications. You asked.”

“N-no, I just…” Crowley moved enough to look Aziraphale in the eye, holding his gaze there, watching as the angel’s eyes scanned the room every which way every other second. “I didn’t-- didn’t know. I only asked questions, I never fought anyone. I didn’t know who did.”

Aziraphale hummed this time, a little calmer, finally able to keep his gaze on Crowley’s face. “That’s good. I often wondered if-- if I’d--”

“If you’d hurt me. Back then.”

“Back when I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“You didn’t. I promise you, you didn’t.”

Aziraphale bit at his lip and played with Crowley’s shirt, closing his eyes when Crowley pressed his lips to his angel’s temple.

“I see it, sometimes.” He mutters in Crowley’s ear, as if his words might rile something below. “Not often. Never liked sleeping. Tried it a few times before the Flood, wasn’t terrible, but the Flood was just… too much. Fought in a few wars since then, by Her directive. It all piles on.” Crowley stayed quiet, pressing his forehead into Aziraphale’s, letting him speak uninterrupted. “Nightmares have always been bad. Very bad. So I stopped sleeping. Doesn’t help all the time, though. Some days are bad. Silverware brushed together sounds like a sword pulled from its sheath, telephones are battle cries, every bump in the shadows is an enemy. They were bad days, my dear. It catches up to me.” Aziraphale took in a shaky breath before continuing, “When I left this time, I'd had a nightmare. Really bad one. Whenever the days get bad I go to places that need the most miracles, war-torn countries, populations filled with plague or famine. I use up miracles until I exhaust myself. Done it for five thousand years. Can’t think on much when you’re that tired. Always hoped it would help make up for what I did.”

“What you did?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale shut his eyes, falling back into a day he remembered well. “Led a battalion into the battle, you see. I was new. Young. Made to protect, so I did. She told me to show no mercy, so I didn’t. I cut down a lot of angels that day, Crowley. Severed their wings and sent them down, watched the fire eat away at them. Never knew their names, didn’t care. Just followed Her.” New tears found their way down between his lashes, his eyes squeezing shut, “I felt nothing. Didn’t let myself until after. After, when the last ones were being rounded up and sent down, when they were screaming for mercy and forgiveness. Part of me wanted to give it to them, thought perhaps there was something worth saving. The other part of me believed that Her word was law. How could She be wrong? So I looked away. Convinced myself all those fallen angels were bad, cruel, unlovable. Then She sent me to the Eastern Gate, where I met you.” Aziraphale’s head fell to Crowley’s shoulder, breathing in his scent of brimstone and coffee grains. “I met you and I knew I’d been wrong. I killed so many, destroyed their lives for no reason, Crowley. It was wrong. She was wrong. I knew that, deep down, from the start. But I said nothing. I was wrong.”

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat, carding his hands through Aziraphale’s hair, “You’d have fallen.” He almost chokes on the words, but keeps his emotions at bay for his angel’s sake.

“Maybe.” He sniffles, “I spent so long trying to convince myself that She was infallible. She told me to protect humanity, so I did. If that meant giving away my sword, the sword that had cut down so many confused souls, then so be it. I wanted it gone. I thought, at least I can provide mercy and love to others. I needed to. But it doesn’t make it better. She still made me start wars and plagues, made me walk a thin line none dared stray from. That blasted sword… I fathered War, Crowley. I'm the one that brought war to this world, not God or any Archangel, it was _me_. So I’d go back and perform my own miracles until my fingers bled. Maybe one day it’ll take the pain away.” He hiccuped, just once, trying to keep his breaths calm, “Pretty stupid excuse for an angel, I am.”

“Stupid? Angel, you’re the kindest, most loving angel She ever made. I’ll be saying that ‘till the Universe blows itself up.”

Aziraphale only grunted, tears soaking through Crowley’s shirt, fingers keeping the demon close.

“I want my sword back.” Aziraphale admits, voice ragged and strained, “It may have more blood on it now than when I gave it away, but I want it back. If its sins must be carried, then I will be the one to carry it. I’m just an awful coward and won’t go look for it. Feels like She'd send me down if I tried. I'm so damn _pathetic_."

"Angel…"

"You say Demons are unforgivable. I don't think that's true, Crowley. I think we're the ones who can't be forgiven. I think we're the side who sacrificed their own morality long ago."

Crowley made a note, and held his angel tighter. There was nothing he could say to that without breaking his own resolve.

"I didn't know you… you felt this way." Crowley took in a breath; he could not cry, not now. Not when Aziraphale needed his confidence. "I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry_."

"Don't blame yourself, my dear. That was my choice. Built that wall long before you and I ever became friends."

Crowley knew that fight. He knew a thing or two about the walls one built, and how difficult they were to tear back down. "What do you need?" He asked carefully, quietly, petting Aziraphale's hair gently. "What can I do?"

"I… don't know."

"Want to go back to sleep?"

"No. Just… just hold me. Please."

"Always."

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed, but he didn't sleep. He simply stayed in Crowley's arms. He rubbed and stroked the angel's hair, his skin, pressed kisses wherever he could reach. He grappled with his mind, trying to find the right words and coming up empty. So he sat there as Aziraphale calmed, and willed his breaths to remain even.

Then, the words hit him. It was as if they were beamed directly into his brain, the exact right words to say, and for the briefest of moments he recognized the feeling from some distant and faded memory.

"Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"I forgive you."

A broken whimper tore its way out of Aziraphale's throat, his body wrapping itself as much around Crowley as he could manage. The words broke whatever remained of Aziraphale's wall, and he sobbed anew as Crowley held him through the night.

\---

Three weeks passed by after that night. Aziraphale seemed to recover from his terrors and returned to his normal routine, but Crowley couldn't forget what had happened. When he knew the angel was fully settled he excused himself for a few days, promising the angel he'd return soon. And return he did, with a package under his arm.

When he returned to the bookshop, Aziraphale was reading at his desk. Crowley set the item down on top of his book, wrapped in plain brown paper. Aziraphale glanced between Crowley and the gift with curiosity glinting in his eyes.

"Well hello to you, too. Have a good trip?"

"Peachy."

"What's this, then?"

"Open it."

Aziraphale did, carefully untying the string that held the paper in place, pulling it back to reveal something he never would have expected.

His sword, gifted to him by God, which he then gifted to humanity to father War itself. It sat there on his desk, pristine and sharp as the day he'd gotten it.

His startled eyes met Crowley's, and the demon shrugged nonchalantly. "You said you wanted it back."

Aziraphale said nothing for a long time, long enough for Crowley to worry that he'd overstepped his bounds. But as he began thinking up apologies, Aziraphale got up and pushed him back against the wall, kissing him within an inch of his life, and all apologies died with Crowley's moans of approval.

The sword took up residence in their flat, sitting on a display cabinet as if it were nothing more than a trophy. But to those who knew its power, it sat on a stand where it could be easily retrieved in a pinch, its sheath hidden in the cabinet below. And if Crowley caught Aziraphale practicing with that sword in the dead of night, retraining his skills with stark determination, he never commented. He simply waited until Aziraphale was finished, memorizing every movement, every strike, taking in the muscles that were otherwise invisible, every action made directly and purposefully. Crowley would remain silent throughout before pulling him out of his own memories with soft touches and gentle words of encouragement. Crowley would take Aziraphale for late night walks, for drinks, for pastries or country drives in his Bentley. Then he'd take Aziraphale into a shower or into bed, chasing away the nightmares that never truly let the angel lie.

Some things were beyond Heaven and Hell, beyond their petty wars. There were true monsters out there, deep and biting, rooted in hearts and minds, tearing up the soul until it was nearly unrecognizable. But there was also the good things, the little pleasures in life which brought with them comfort and security, repairing the cracks with forgiveness. Crowley knew there were worse things in life than comforting his angel, than being called "nice" and "sweet" in sleep-heavy drawls, than helping him work through his traumas to see the light at the other end a little bit at a time. There were much worse things indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I've also posted this story to my tumblr, [Here!](https://stories-of-arani.tumblr.com/post/187261509334/father-of-war-araniwrites-good-omens-neil) If you liked this, consider giving my fic a reblog! Hope you all enjoy it. <3


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